Thursday, October 4, 1984. Ugly, senseless, hysterical hatred is extremely frightening in animals or people. My dreams were haunted by archetypical dog packs... I am in an oval cul-de-sac at the end of a long, soft tunnel. At the far end of this chamber there is a strong magnetic pull. Get too close and it will pull you into the womb. I step back just in time. Allen Ginsberg is at my side with a mantra: "Closing that old Womb Door, don't wanna go back no more." Then I hear a baying sound, muffled by the soft walls of the passage, but unmistakable: "THE DOGS! THE DOGS!" Closer now, a snarling, slavering Cerberus pack. So Allen pulls an Indian rope trick to erect a scaffold, but it isn't quite high enough and I wake up kicking at the dogs as they leap up to drag me down.
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